Hard Working Hands....

A girl who used to live in my ward, Sarah Carruth, is a photographer. A few weeks ago she posted some pictures of her father's hands and talked about them in a way I had never really thought about before. She described her father's hands by saying,

"if you want an example of strength, hard work, and love, look at my Dad's hands. You can literally tell how much life my dad has lived just by glancing at his hands. I remember being really little and holding his hands and marveling at how cracked and calloused they were. How they felt so scratchy to the touch and how his nails, even when very clean were always etched in black"

--http://sarahknightphotography.blogspot.com/2011/01/most-important-project-ill-ever-do.html

This post really tugged at my heart strings. As I read her post I imagined my own father's hands. I remember when I was younger my dad would trace my face with his fingers to help put me to sleep; his hands always so soft and gentle. My dad, like Sarah's, is such a hard worker. Always willing to put in the extra work to get something accomplished. He has used his hands to work in the yard, finish our basement,and comfort us when needed. Sarah's post inspired me to write down a poem about my dad's hands. It is not very well put together, but it is a start of something that I hope will be something I can cherish forever.



Hard Working Hands

Hands that was once beautiful and kind
Now bare the signs of daily grind.
Rigid, callused, and old
If you look closely a story is told.
Each wrinkle a chapter, each scar a test
That was written while doing their best.
They built a home, raised a family, and consoled neighbors
Now they are roadmaps of one’s own labors.
They taught, scolded, and were lifted in prayer
Always ready to dig, lift, or to share.
Now they remind us of life’s treasures
No two hands have brought so much pleasure.